CHARLES REPTON had taken no weekends. Charles Repton had sat tight in London.

The end of that May did not tempt him to move; he was right on to his business, and never had his silent life been more silent or Maria, Lady Repton, felt more alone, though she did as she was bid and remained immovable in her London house, only seeing, when the leisure was afforded her, her few dear friends (none conspicuous), and once or twice presiding at a great dinner of her husband’s.

Beyond all his other concerns one chief concern was resolving itself in Charles Repton’s head. He was wondering exactly where he stood between commerce and politics.

These moments, not of doubt but of a necessity for decision, are the tests of interior power. Some half-dozen such moments had marked the career of his strict soul: one when he had determined to risk the transition from his native town to Newcastle carefully calculating the capital of clients and how much could be successfully lent in that centre: another, when he had risked the expense of his first election: a third when he had decided to take office—and there were others.

Now as May drew to its close, as the discussion on the Budget was in full swing and as the eager public notice of Van Diemens was on the point of filling the press, he was in some balance as to whether the precise proportion of activity which he gave to the House of Commons—it was a large proportion—might not be absorbing just too much of his energy.

He calculated most exactly—as a man calculates a measurable thing, an acreage, or a weight of metal—what the future proportions should be.

He must remain in touch with everything that passed at Westminster; on that he was fixed. But he knew that there was a growing criticism of his combination of high political idealism with affairs in the City. The Moon had said one exceedingly unpleasant thing about the Oil Concession in Burmah—it was only a newspaper but he had had to settle it. The Capon was paying a little more attention than he liked to his position in the House of Commons.

He thought hard, and under the process of his thought his mind somewhat cleared. But he had come to no decision when, late in the night of Sunday, the 31st of May, he marshalled the papers upon his desk, deliberately turned his mind off the problems that had been engaging him, and drew up a list of his next engagements.

The next day, Monday the 1st of June, after leaving his house punctually at half-past nine, he was to give half the morning to the Wardenship. He was to return home at noon. From noon to lunch he must see to his accounts. It was doubly important, for it was a Monday and it was the first of the month. He would lunch: preferably alone, for he would be tired, and he would give Maria to understand that he must be undisturbed.

On Tuesday, the 2nd, was the speech to the General Meeting of Van Diemens. He glanced at his notes for that speech; they were all in excellent sequence, and he felt, so far as men of that stern temper can feel it, a little touch of pride when he noted the procession of the argument. He saw in his mind’s eye first the conviction and then the enthusiasm of the men whom he must convince: the vivid portrayal of the Empire’s need of the railway: the ease of building it,—the delivery of the great metaphor wherein he compared that thin new line of iron to the electrical connection which turns potential and useless electrical energy into actual and working force.

He re-read the phrase in which he called it “completing the circuit”; he did not doubt at all that the meeting would follow him. Sentence after sentence passed before his memory (for he had carefully learned the peroration by heart); the name of Nelson shone in one of them, the name of Rhodes in another, of Joel in a third, till the great oration closed with a vision, brief, succinct (but how vivid!) of the Gate of the East and of England’s hand upon it, holding

through them: through them!

It was a great speech.

He turned more carelessly to the already typewritten stuff which he must deliver upon the Thursday to the Wycliffite Conference. It would do—and it was of importance for the moment. It reminded him a little contemptuously of the High Meat Teas in the North of England and of his youth, and of that maundering war between Church and Chapel which was then of real moment to him, and which now he still had wearily to wage,—at least in public.

Whether this little bout of study had been too much for a man who had already spent a full month glued to his work, or whatever else was the cause, he felt as midnight approached a trifle brain-sick. He leant his head upon his hand, and it seemed to him—he hoped it was an illusion for the sensation was yet vague—but it did seem to him that the pain behind the ears, or at least an oppression there, was beginning. He muttered an exclamation so sharp as would have astonished those who had never seen him under a strain. Then he went quickly upstairs to the drawing-room and found his wife, sitting all alone with her book.

She looked up as he entered, and again she was startled by that strange innocence in his eyes. Odd, (but what living!) flashes of thirty, of forty years ago pierced her heart. Youth goes down every lane, and these two, just after their marriage, just before the first loan he had made, had been, for a month or so, young: the memory of it was a jewel to her.

He came in at that instant loosened: he was walking ill: he made towards her as though he were seeking a refuge, and still that persistent innocence shone from his eyes. He sat down beside her, breathing uncertainly, groped out and took her hand. He had made no such movement since—what year? Since before what first hardening had frightened her? How many years, how long a life ago?

The mood was of no long duration. She could have wished it had been longer. He slept with a sort of deep lethargy that was not his way, and twice in the night she rose to watch him; but with the morning all his powers and, alas! all that difference had returned.

She was to see nothing of him while he went through every detail of his affairs for the week and the month with his assistant; she was not even to be allowed to see something of him at his midday meal; she watched him as he went out of the house at the invariable hour to drive to the office of the Court of Dowry. And as she watched him with new feelings in her, and the breaking of dead crusts, she saw another man accost him, the cab turned away, and the two go together, walking, towards the Park. She knew the figure though she came so little into the life of London, and she recognised, in the sloppy clothes and the stooping walk, the Prime Minister.

If you are a member of the governing classes of this great Empire it is not an easy thing to approach a house between the Edgware Road and Hyde Park from the North, at half-past nine in the morning it is supremely difficult if you are making for Westminster.

It presupposes being carted at an impossible hour to some place in the North West, and there let loose and making a run for home. And why should any man of position be carted to any place in the North West at dawn? On the whole the best excuse is Paddington Station. Eton is a good place to come from, for the liar comes in at Paddington. It was from Eton, therefore, that the Prime Minister came that morning ... anyhow he was N.W. of the Park before nine. He walked slowly towards the Marble Arch. As he approached Charles Repton’s house he walked somewhat more slowly, but he had timed himself well.

The tall straight figure came out and hailed a cab.

The Prime Minister crossed before him, turned round in amiable surprise, and said: “My dear Repton!”And Repton greeted, with somewhat less effusion, the Prime Minister.

“I was walking from Paddington,” said the Prime Minister.

“Have you eaten?” said Sir Charles, as he paid the cabman a shilling for nothing.

“Yes, I breakfasted before I started. I was walking down to Westminster. Can’t you come with me?”

Sir Charles found it perfectly easy, and the two men walked through the Park together towards Hyde Park Corner and Constitution Hill.

To most men the difficulty of the transition from daily converse to important transactions is so difficult that they will postpone it to the very end of an interview. The Prime Minister was not of that kind. They had not got two hundred yards beyond that large arena near the Marble Arch wherein every Sunday the Saxon folk thresh out and determine for ever the antinomy of predestination and free will—not to mention other mysteries of the Christian religion,—when the Prime Minister had reminded Charles Repton of the absolute necessity of a new man on the Government bench in the House of Lords.

Charles Repton heartily agreed, and for ten minutes gave his reasons. He hoped, he said in an iron sort of way, that he was talking sense, and that he was not meddling with things not his business. He was warmly encouraged to go on, and he minutely described the kind of man whom he thought was wanted. They had too many business men as it was, and there were too many men fresh from the House of Commons. The Government forces in the Upper House had come to be a sort of clique, half of them very intelligent, but now and then, especially in big debates, out of touch with their colleagues. Could not some man of real position, a man with a long established title, wealthy and thoroughly well known if only in a small world for some proficiency of his, be got to take an interest in the Government programme? A man like Pulborough, for instance? If Pulborough had had to earn his living he would have been the best bantam breeder alive. And then, look at his talents, why, he designed all the new work at Harberry himself, etc. And so forth.

As they were crossing by the Wellington statue, the Prime Minister, in the uneasy intervals of dodging the petrol traffic, explained that that was not in his mind. He must have some one who had heard everything in the Cabinet for the last two years. “Repton,” he said ... (as they left the refuge pavement—a taxi-cab all but killed him).... “Repton, would you, have you thought of ....” Two gigantic motor-buses swerved together and the politicians were separated. The Prime Minister saw the Warden far ahead, a successful man, whole upon the further shore. The Prime Minister leapt in front of a bicycle, caught the kerb and ended his sentence “... a peerage yourself?”They had come through all the perils of that space and were walking quietly down Constitution Hill; Dolly could develop his thought more freely, and in the most natural way in the world he put it that they could not do without Charles Repton.

He was very careful not to force the position. Charles Repton was absolutely essential: they must have him or they must have nobody.

An Egyptian smile, a smile of granite, could be guessed rather than seen upon Charles Repton’s firm lips.

“Would you propose that I should be Master of the Horse?” he said.

“No,” said the Prime Minister, smiling very much more easily, “nor Manager of the King’s Thoroughbred Stud, either. But I know that Abenford is mortally tired of the Household; though what there is to be tired of,” he added....

To the Prime Minister’s very great surprise, Charles Repton simply replied: “If I went to the Lords, I should go without office.”

At this unexpected solution the Prime Minister was in duty bound to propose a hundred reasons against it. He implored Repton to remember his great position and the peculiar value that he had for him, the Prime Minister. “It’s never more than three men that do the work, Repton, whether you’re dealing with ten in committee or half a thousand. You know that.”

But Charles Repton was firm. These solid masters of finance are glad to think out their world; in a sense nothing comes to them that is unexpected when it comes. Their brains may be compared to the great new War Office in Whitehall, where a hundred minutely detailed plans for the invasion of Germany, France, Russia, Spain, Italy and the Baltic States, lie pigeonholed, in perfect order, ready to be put into immediate execution at the pronouncement of the stern words Krieg-mobil.

Long before the simple intrigues of the drawing-rooms had taken shape, Charles Repton had swept the whole landscape with his inward eye. He knew every fold of the terrain, he had measured every range. He had determined that, upon the whole, a peerage was worth his while: now; at the very height of his fortune.

To have a permanent place, free from office, with the prestige of title, with committees open to him and every official source permanently to his hand, was worth his while. It was worth his while to go to the House of Lords had it been a matter for his free choice; and if he went to the House of Lords he must go a free man. It would do more to save Van Diemens than any other step, and that great Company was worth twenty places in the Cabinet. Van Diemens was the master of this Cabinet and the last.

He had made up his mind then that a peerage was worth his while even if it depended entirely on his choice. Now that he could make it a favour, it was doubly worth his while. The alternative meant useless friction.... Yes, he would take that peerage: but there was one thing that he must have quite clear:——

The two men walked together in silence past the Palace; they went through the superb new entrance to St. James’s Park, crossed the bridge, and turned towards Westminster.

It had been a shock. The relief for the Prime Minister was somewhat too great, and the last thing that Repton had to say was awkward; but he was accustomed to leap such hedges. He began boldly:

“Do you happen to know what I have set aside for the regular purposes of the Party?” he asked.

The Prime Minister shook his head. If there was one thing he detested, it was the kitchen side of politics.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Repton. “I’ve put exactly the same sum aside every year for fifteen years, whether we’ve been in office or out of it. Not a large sum, only five hundred pounds. Pottle will tell you.”

The Premier made such a movement with his head as showed that he did not care.

“Only five hundred pounds but exactly five hundred pounds,” continued Repton firmly. “Now Pottle must understand quite clearly that that subscription will neither be increased nor diminished.” He spoke as men speak in a shop, and in a shop of which they have the whip hand.“That’s between you and Pottle,” said the Prime Minister in the tone of one who doesn’t want to go on with the subject.

“Yes,” said Repton, looking straight in front of him, “it has got to be understood quite clearly. I’ve made it a standing order. Pottle’s never pestered me, but he can pester like the deuce.... And I’ve absolutely made up my mind.”

“Of course, of course,” said the Prime Minister. “I think it’s wise,” he went on,—“It isn’t my business, but I do think it wise to keep in touch with the Central Office. But it’s between you and Pottle.”

There was another long silence as they went down Great George Street.

“That’s all,” said Repton, opposite the Pugin fountain. The two men walked on. The statues of great men long dead looked down upon them; those statues were unused to such conversations. One of the statues must have thought Charles Repton a tactless fellow, but Charles Repton had calculated everything, even to his chances of life and to the number of active years that probably lay before him. And nothing would have more offended or disturbed him than any ambiguity upon the business side of the transaction.

They parted, one for the Court of Dowry, the other for Downing Street, and the affair was settled.

That afternoon the Prime Minister asked Demaine to come and have a cup of tea. He said he would rather it was in his own room; he took Demaine’s arm and led him round.

“Have you anything on to-night, Dimmy?” he said.

Dimmy thought. “I don’t know,” he answered after a long examination of possible engagements.

“Well, you’ve got to be here for the division anyhow.”

“Oh yes,” said Dimmy. His high record of divisions was the sheet anchor of his soul: he had sat up all night sixteen times.

“Well,” said the Prime Minister hesitating, as though after all he didn’t want to drink a cup of tea, “you might see me then ... no, come along now.”

And as they drank their tea he told his companion that there was to be a change in the Cabinet.

“Now,” he said, “I want to leave you perfectly free.” He seemed to be suffering a little as he said it, but he went on tenaciously: “I want to leave you perfectly free; ... but of course you know your name has been put before me?”

“I don’t know,” began Demaine.

The Prime Minister stopped him with his hand. “Well, anyhow it has.” He paused and thought. “I can’t tell how it would suit you, but I think I can tell how you would suit it. Now on that point I’m satisfied, Dimmy. You know the kind of work it is?”

But Demaine didn’t know.“Well,” said the Prime Minister, leaning back easily and joining his hands, “it’s like all those things: you’ve got your staff ... in one way the work’s cut and dried. It’s very varied work. No man can be expected to grasp it all round. But,” (leaning forward) “like all these things, it wants a sort of general point of view, you understand me?”

Dimmy did not dare to shake his head.

“It wants a sort of ...” the Prime Minister swept his hand over the table—“a sort of what I may call a—well, a—a common sense, especially about sudden things. You have to decide sometimes.... But you’ll soon get into it,” he added in a tone of relief. “You’ll have Sorrel with you all the first few days; he’s exceedingly easy to get on with; he’s been there for years—that is, of course, if you take it.”

“Yes,” said Demaine in a whirl, “yes, if I take it I shall have Sorrel.”

“Then of course,” went on the Prime Minister rapidly, “it’s the kind of place which you can make anything of. It can count enormously; it counted enormously under Gherkin until he died. And Repton of course has made quite a splash in it.”

Demaine shuddered slightly.

“But there’s no necessity,” continued the other quickly, “it’s really better without a splash. It’s a plodding sort of attention that’s wanted,” he ended wearily; then with an afterthought he added: “Why not go to Sorrel now?”“Couldn’t you give me a note?” asked Demaine nervously.

“Oh nonsense,” answered his cousin, upon whom the strain was beginning to tell. “Just go up and see him in his office. He’s the mildest of men.”

“All right,” said Demaine sighing. He finished his tea and went out,—and as he left the Prime Minister called after him: “Don’t forget to find me after the division to-night. Then I can tell you if anything is settled.”

Demaine walked undeterminedly towards the Dowry Offices behind Scotland Yard; his heart failed him; he did not go in. He stood aimlessly in Whitehall, staring at the traffic; his knees were not quite straight and his mouth was half open.

Past him, as he so stood, strode, full of vigour and of will, the fixed form of Sir Charles Repton, walking towards Trafalgar Square. The younger man followed him with his eyes and felt in his heart what a gulf there was between them. He was by no means of those who dare, and the thought of office appalled him. Then suddenly he remembered the salary. His legs straightened beneath him and he forced himself up the stairs to where he might ask to see Mr. Sorrel.